The Thief
by Amaterasu Kinesi
Summary: Isabella M. Swan is 26, an artist, broken-hearted, and filled with guilt and resentment. But for one night, she is willing to cast all that aside and just indulge life. After all, it is a night for celebrating her successes and for once, not shy away from the limelight. Will she bloom or wither under it?
1. DISCLAIMER

**_DISCLAIMER:_**

Please Note:

_For all intents and purposes;_

_No copyright infringement is intended. _

_This story is being written for recreational purposes __only__._

_The Twilight Saga and all characters involved within the plotline of this story are the property of the author, Stephenie Meyer._

_However, the plot is entirely my own._

**_–This applies to the rest of this story._**


	2. Act One: Taste of Wine

**The Thief**

**_…_**

* * *

**Act One: _Taste of Wine_**

* * *

_…_

Feeling alive and abuzz with exhilaration, I find myself smiling from ear to ear as I listen in attentively. With a honed ear, I pay close attention to the sounds the surrounding room echoes as it breathes and murmurs around me, like the fire I feel thrumming through my veins when I immerse myself and create, allowing the charged atmosphere to fill me as it washes over me with its susurrations.

Fondly, I gaze about me at the different groups of people gathered. Even though most of them don't know me on a personal level, every single one of them is here sharing, living, and inhaling the air of my success in some minute way. Celebrating with me for this one night, witnesses to my artistry finding new heights.

Everything everyone is saying alternates but it is a variation of awe and praise ultimately. Their pulsing enthusiasm rich with earnest appreciation and going in tandem with the beat of my heart vibrating and jackhammering within the encaging of my ribcage, a visual manifestation.

Aware of the thrumming blood coursing through my veins, the same way I feel the murmurs of every being in this gallery admiring my art and soul in hushed tones while sipping on a selection of pink champagne or red wine and sampling on hors d'oeuvres. Their words and whispers are like a balm to my atrophied soul and elating.

Words like the following:

"She's outdone herself…"

"Nothing like she did before…"

"…But certainly lacking none of the passion from her previous works."

"Its subliminal message is so subtle…"

"You're right!"

"Simply entrancing…"

"Can't wait to see what she does next!"

There's something inspiring, fulfilling, and enthralling about their kind praises that makes my humble-self soar… Consequently, I carry myself with pride and stand tall as I start to walk, socializing and making a point of paying attention to the trite flow of ongoing conversation. Frequently offering a perfunctory nod and gratitude when applicable.

Also, it doesn't hurt that I feel like a billion dollars with the way I'm dressed for the evening.

Befitting the formal occasion, I am wearing a midnight blue chiffon gown that complements my natural paleness with its stark contrast and causing my skin to become seemingly aglow from within as if it were fragile china. Sporting a half-moon neckline with a small 'v' at its center and bringing an adequate amount of attention to my prominent collarbones, exhibiting an aesthetic hint of cleavage.

Unsurprisingly, the dress is inconspicuous in the front—off the shoulder top and corseted outer bodice with sleeves that end just above my elbows—its overall outlook remaining classic. However, the rest of my dress is surprisingly risqué, starting from the back of my shoulders to the hips.

Just bellow my dimpling shoulder blades and coming to a gather at an interlock with three matching buttons across the delicate expanse of the fine fabric at the back, where there's an intricate web of equally midnight-colored threading. Like a veil, the designing of the artful sequencing of membrane-like fine fabric is one of disguising, purposefully revealing everything and nothing. Calling attention to my back upper-torso in a tastefully enticing manner, and ending promptly, just above the initial curve of my waist.

Giving my smooth skin the surreal appearance of having delicate, flyaway feathers interlacing and integrating like a tattoo. Thereafter, leaving the rest of my waist and lower back bare to the point where it ends at a 'V' bellow the dimples it purposefully accentuates. The complete look allows for the raw elegance and strength I posses to shine through unadulterated. Velvet peep-toed heels and all—none-lethal kind, thank-you-very-much.

Or in the words of my (minion-like) raving stylists: "Bella, _brava_, you look like you're glowing from within!" —and— "_Stupenda_, Bella! Just breathtaking!"

Though I think they should really tone it down a little with their bubbling enthusiasm, I have to say, they might be onto something here… Even _I_ can humbly admit that I look good tonight and have nothing to be ashamed of.

_…_

"There's my beautiful and talented daughter!"

Turning at the sound of my mother's voice, I excuse myself from my current conversation and my smile broadens as I watch mom and dad approach me. Instantly, it hits me how much I've missed seeing them and I'm overwhelmed with love for my parents.

"Mom! Dad!" I exclaim gleefully and go to meet them the rest of the way.

"Congratulations sweetheart," mom chuckles. Pressing her palm to my cheek tenderly, she offers a watery smile that wavers with pride. "This is amazing, Bella."

My mother is looking around us and I smile and nod, understanding what she means. Everything does look amazing tonight. But now that my parents are here, the word 'amazing' sort of doesn't measure up with how I'm feeling.

"You guys made it," I whisper, my voice tearing with emotion. Pulling them in at the same time, I hug and kiss them and breathe them in. Inhaling their familiar scent, I realize that they smell like _home _and I almost choke up all over again. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course we did, we wouldn't miss this for the world, Bells," Dad mumbles and pulls me in for a tighter hug as mom stands back and smiles at the two people she loves most in the world with love gleaming in her light brown eyes. Guess he's missed me too; he's not usually a hugger. I'm beaming. "Congratulations, kid." Dad cuffs my chin affectionately, continuing, "We're so proud of you…"

"Thanks dad!" Pulling back from the hug slightly, sincerely I say, "It's so good to finally see you both… I've missed you so much."

"Now," interrupts Mom, holding me at arm's length, "let me look at you…"

Blushing lightly under my parents' scrutiny, I turn full circle for them so they get the full picture. Once I'm facing them again, Mom is beaming with approval while holding a hand over her heart and Dad… well, Dad looks like he ate something sour once he notices that the back of my dress is bare.

In fact, I think he's stared down about five guys whose eyes keep straying in my direction for longer than it is deemed appropriate within the last second or so. I feel like snickering but I'm more than a little embarrassed myself, so I don't.

"You look great," observes Dad gravely, "and… at ease."

"Thank you." I blush, feeling like a small child and not minding it at all. "I am."

"What are you talking about, Charlie?" objects Mom, looking me over again with a teasing look. "She nearly gave me a heart attack but our daughter looks gorgeous and hot!"

"Re-Renee!" sputters Dad and blushes.

"Your mother would agree with me."

"Mom…" I grumble, cheeks flaming.

"Bella, please, honey," says Mom, staring pointedly at me. "You can't go around dressed like that" —she waves an impatient hand at my attire for emphasis— "and not expect me or anyone, for that matter, to not trip over themselves to pay you their due compliments."

"Oh, all right…" I grumble but I'm smiling.

"Now, go on," urges mom, "turn around and let me see the rest of that dress again!"

"More like we should discuss _where_ you left the rest of that dress…" I hear Dad grumble under his breath as I twirl for them again and Mom claps excitedly. Flushing furiously, I look over at mom pleadingly and then at Dad. Silently communicating with her that she needs to appease Dad, somehow.

"_Charles_." Mom gives Dad a pointed look and he squirms, avoiding her gaze. I smirk.

"Just saying…" he says gruffly.

* * *

_…_

* * *

Believable as it might sound to anyone other than myself, I know I can't honestly believe that I am here and that it has been nearly four years since I graduated from the University of Washington Seattle with a degree in Drawing and Painting. After attending the UW, like the previous year and a half, I had another two years of almost blissful fulfillment. During which time I lived, breathed, and immersed myself in doing what I love and do best—painting and creating something to show at Galleria Dioscuri.

However, metaphorically speaking, when that two-year mark came to its culminating end, everything around me came burning down in a suspension of smoke and ash. The suddenness with which I crashed and burned left me bereft. Leaving behind only the dusty remains of the life I once thrived for and could no longer put back together.

Subsequently, three months crawled and passed me by while I remained in a catatonic state of numbness, before I could find in me the will to conjure up the strength needed to get my act back together and stop feeling sorry for myself. Eventually, I came to the elucidating realization that not all was lost and the consuming numbness sporadically melted from my limbs.

The process was cleansing, like removing a snake's skin, with the insistent help of the pelting September rain that prattled on at my windows about washing away the grime of the cinders—I just had to allow it—and I was able to think clearly again. True, everything around me that I depended on to center me in stability had crumbled, so what? It happens to everyone, I had to remind myself.

Once I had forgiven the unforgiving process of coming to terms with my shambled reality and came to accept it, I was ready to face my fears. Reminding myself that, if nothing else, I still had my passion intact and my brush to recreate all I had lost, since I wasn't lacking in creativity. Fortunately, I hadn't burned down in cinders with the rest of my previously erected foundation, which seemed to have been built over sand.

Simply, I had told myself, I needed to just move on, learn from the mistakes, and forget the trauma but not the lesson. Mind made up and a new sense of purpose propelling me forward, I knew I wouldn't be making that same mistake twice. I made sure of that. With tenacity, creative vengeance ablaze, a brush in my hand, and a little paint, I set to work.

For days, I didn't sleep and only ate when I had to, enough to sustain the flow of my momentum so that my body wouldn't force me to stop in the middle of my trance-like zone. After all, it wouldn't do for my body to behave like a petulant child and render me unconscious with a fainting spell, due to something as embarrassing as malnourishment.

Day in and day out, I continued to draw without awareness of the passage of time, until my body finally crashed and begged me for sleep. Not to mention, worried, Jake had come over to check up on me and had convinced me to 'step away from the brush and easel' with barely any objections on my part. Actually, I think he might have threatened to call Alice if I didn't listen to him, that was what probably did the trick and had me putting an end to all resistance.

With no choice but to surrender to my body's demands and listen, I had dropped everything and slept uninterrupted for three consecutive days. While under, I dreamt: in my dreams, the only thing left to do was to create my own set of wings to spread and fly. Not to fly away and escape but to rise above my circumstances. To cast a shadow, long and wide enough from above to remind me of just how high I could actually soar, if I actually allowed myself to indulge circumstance and the conundrums life kept throwing at me.

Surviving and thriving another two years with that mindset, I steadily kept my rhythm and made sure to paint, eat when I was supposed to without needing Jake around to force-feed me into it, sleep, and repeat the process the next day. Before long, I overcame the arduous journey through careful foresight and every calculated measure I took to reconstruct my life to a higher level than where I was before has lead me to where I find myself today: Galleria J. Coscoroba.

It is in this crowding gallery, surrounded by white walls littered with the art I created within those two years—along with some from fellow artists I admire and call friends—that I feel like I'm finally catching wind of that much needed break.

* * *

_…_

* * *

Apparently this is a night of firsts for me:

For the first time in as long as I can remember, my clothes aren't stained or bleached with the evidence of my endeavors. Neither are my fingers or visage stained, sprinkled, and/or smudged with the porous black residual from using charcoal or paint while at work. In fact, for once, my nails are perfectly manicured to even white-tipped crescents and there's no paint hiding under my fingernails, or adorning my arms, tangled hair, and clothes.

Now that I come to think about it, this is also the first time I am willingly dressing up, in a dress and not-so-perilous velvet heels, no less. First time my hair is in a low, immaculate chignon. First time my makeup is meticulously and professionally done to enhance my beauty. Rigorously highlighting by high cheekbones, elongating my doe eyes with eyeliner and eyeshadows in tones of grey, dark blue, black, and bronze—and maybe even some shimmering white eyeshadow might have been thrown in there as well.

Even my eyebrows have been plucked to a delicate arch and slightly shadowed in, making them darker, fuller, and striking. To complete the elegant and mature look that I never in a million years thought I could pull off, my lips have been coated in a bold shade of red that makes my mouth look slightly more plumb and succulent than usual.

In other words, when the stylist had finished applying my makeup, light upon request, and allowed me to have a look at the magic she'd worked over me, I had a long look at my reflection in the mirror and could barely recognize myself. To say I was speechless is an understatement.

Actually, I think I was more in the realm of flabbergasted—in a good way. That, in and of itself, was another first and entirely surreal. Enough to make me tipsy and lightheaded in the wake of my admission, leaving me with nothing but bittersweet memories to content with...

One word came to mind as I'd blinked into the mirror and my reflection did the same, gazing back at me with a bearing of awe while I admired the beauty I'd so easily believed nonexistent prior to my makeup appointment. The word being: Sublime—_I look sublime._

Anyone who knows the real me knows that the word _sublime _isn't exactly a vocabulary word I would normally use on a daily basis as an attribute to describe me. A _klutz_ and _uncoordinated_ are the words I'd normally use to describe me, Isabella Swan, after the obvious 'artist demeanor' sinks in if it isn't already oozing through my pores. Any other categorization would normally be out of my jurisdiction and putting me right out of my strenuous comfort zone.

However, this isn't the case tonight.

Tonight I am in my element and ambience, in my natural habitat. Inhaling what I've been working so hard towards achieving, since I turned in my extensive portfolio senior year and the flurry of graduation ensued.

Somehow, I don't feel restless or useless without a brush or pencil dangling from my twitchy fingertips or perched behind my ear, where I normally would keep it, just within reach and ready to use. Instead, I am completely at ease with everyone around me and myself—definitely, another first occurrence for me.

As I try to process the enormity of what this evening signifies to the course of my career, my eyes are disbelievingly skimming back and forth to where my work is in display and over every letter of the elegant white words, written in a bold script across the width of the floor-to-ceiling windows and automatic double doors of the entrance to Galleria J. Coscoroba.

Horizontally, the words read: _Presenting_—_Requiem's Key a Collection by Artist Isabella M. Swan._

Now I can finally see the seams of my previously unraveled life threading together and bearing fruit once again. The two pieces that make up the fabric of my life prior to and after college are finally sewn together in a thin indentation made up of the sweat of my brow, the strokes of my brush, and an abundance of paint—and all the colors and character it has brought to my life—represented in what I am showcasing today.

Honestly, I shudder to think of where I would be if it weren't for my art. During those two years of barely surviving as one of many a starving artist and a young woman with a self-imposed broken heart, another two and a half years prior, my art was the only thing that kept me going.

To this day, even though I _logically _know why I made the decisions I made then, I feel like I don't really know the meaning behind the why or much less the how it all broke down. Nonetheless, I've been scrapping by, shouldering the consequences of the aftermath in a miserable haze—until now.

* * *

_…_

* * *

Tonight, certainly, I am content and elated beyond measure to be standing here. This evening, for the first time in five years, I feel truly _alive._ For once, I'm not afraid to allow myself the luxury of being happy... if demurely, without allowing the guilt that always plagues me to take over and take away from the merriment.

In spite of my current endeavors coming to fruition, hence my elation, there will always be something holding me back and keeping me from feeling outright joyous in such occasions. And that 'something' is _someone_ from whom I ran away from five years ago. Eight months before college graduation, to be exact. That same someone is the one who inspired the theme behind this requiem and holds the key to my letting go, the keys to our freedom.

Meanwhile, occasionally sipping my refill of red wine and savoring bites of rich cheeses when I feel restless, and like everyone else, I mingle. But unlike mostly everyone else who's here and only spectators in this scene, I'm going around making my rounds. Chitchatting here and there with important patrons, while every once in a while Aro Volta, Galleria J. Coscoroba's sole courier, pulls me away as politely as possible from every other conversation to speak with another collector who's interested in what I have to say about my craft and the possibility of investing.

Unlike the first time I exposed and bared my soul, my art to these many people, today I'm feeling anomalously at ease about it. The very first time was so different. For one thing, I'd been twenty-one and an Art student with aspiring dreams that were as realistic as they were idealistic. Still, the world was my oyster.

With two of my paintings displayed alongside the senior's best works during the Senior Show after I'd made the final cut for the privilege of earning a space, I had been immersed in all the hype of the opening reception for the Senior Show. It took place during my junior year at the UW with no foreseeable warning to the change that was coming my way, until it happened moments after the opening was well underway.

I'd been studying my own paintings and then moved on to examine the senior pieces that called to me, when I noticed a man and a woman with indecipherable accents conversing in hushed tones. Paying them no mind, I had continued to admire the works of my fellow artist and picked my favorites.

The opportunity came miraculously because someone else in the 'real world' had messed up, tragically landing in rehab, and a man by the name of James Castor was surveying the UW Senior Show's picks for a quickie replacement artist to fill in the empty spot for a show in his new gallery, Galleria Dioscuri. After eying my work and liking my style, James Castor had asked around until someone directed him toward me.

When he and his partner Victoria Pollux approached me, James Castor introduced himself as the courier and owner of Galleria Dioscuri and offered me his business card. Once introductions were out of the way, Mr. Castor told me he was interested in seeing a complete body of work from me and anything else I had at the moment. Right then and there, much to my surprise.

Thankfully, I had heard great things about Galleria Dioscuri. It was a new gallery at the time and always looking to show emerging artists, meaning most of the displayed work was fresh and raw. At least, that's what I had heard from a couple of my good friends when they'd gone to a show several months prior.

While showing Mr. Castor my complete body of work, a grand total of twenty-three pieces, I had been nerve-racked about the possibilities and screaming on the inside for him to pick me (_me, me, me!_) but I kept a neutral, calm, and collected exterior throughout the entire exchange. After all, every course I had taken up to that point had been training me for that moment.

Only, the moment had approached much sooner than expected. Still, I didn't have to speak and sell my work. My art spoke for itself without needing my input. Either he would be a taker or he wouldn't be. Almost instantaneously, he was a taker —firing question after question that I answered just as swiftly.

At the age of twenty-one, there was only one thing I, Isabella Marie Swan, was truly confident about then and today: My art. The only thing that hadn't made me at ease when the show at Galleria Dioscuri commenced two weeks later was the subject staring in all of my paintings and the secrets it murmured to every observer, for whom I'd all but created a window with a perfect view into my soul.

At the time, what ultimately undid me was the shame and cowardice I was already drowning in, really.

* * *

_…_

* * *

"Congratulations on the show, Miss Swan," Mr. Carney says, extending a withered hand for me to shake. "You art has matured greatly."

"Thank you, Mr. Carney," I gush earnestly, feeling my cheeks flush with pride as I take his surprisingly soft hand in mine and shake it firmly. "That's the highest compliment anyone could ever give me! But coming from you, it really means a lot."

"Nonsense," he says dismissively, patting my arm affectionately. "There are two things I know when I find it: honest talent and what I like. And you, Miss Swan, possess both and have artfully mastered your talent into a well presented package here tonight." Mr. Carney continues, "I'm just honored I'm still alive to see it."

"And I'm honored to have you see my art and enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed creating it." I smile brilliantly. "Thank you so much for coming tonight, Mr. Carney."

Mr. Carney is as honest a man as they come and a hard to win over art critic. Him liking my work is an achievement in and of itself, since the man rarely has anything good to say about someone's work and usually lets you know by remaining quiet as the grave when he has nothing to add to what he deems atrocious. Silence plus Mr. Carney equal artistic death.

"I'm glad I did, Miss Swan." High compliments indeed! "Keep up the good work, I'll be looking forward to your next show. I shall be expecting great things from you from now on." _Oh… I can't breathe… _Mr. Carney inclines his head, bidding, "Miss Swan."

"Thank you," I whisper in a small, small voice as the intimidating man walks away to stare some more at my works with his hands tightly grasped behind his back.

"I heard that, Swan," Jake whispers in my ear and I shudder at the unexpected warmth of his breath tickling my right ear. "Congratulations, there might be hope for you yet. Just don't let it go to your head, you're still a newbie."

Looking up at Jake, I manage to catch a glimpse of his black eyes alight with familiar mischief just as he squeezes my shoulder affectionately and passes me by, predictably heading over to the refreshment tables. Shaking my head, I feel the warmth of his welcomed support spreading through me.

When Jake reaches the table and looks over his shoulder back at me, while tossing a piece of cheese into his mouth, I petulantly stick my tongue out at him. Amused, Jake winks impishly and silently laughs as I pull a face, turning his attention back to the array of hors d'oeuvres on the table and shaking his black-haired head.

Smiling giddily, I sigh and stand here for a moment longer, basking in the glow of Mr. Carney's compliments with my hands clasped tightly before me. This night just keeps getting better and better… With five out of twenty-five pieces already sold within the last half hour, I only see it getting better as the evening velvets.

* * *

_…_

* * *

Someone else passes me by, squeezes my shoulder, whispering a few congratulatory words, and I nod my thanks, still smiling. Another minute and someone else is squeezing my arm. We also exchange perfunctory nothingness and I just stand here after they're gone, smiling so much it hurts. Meanwhile, I continue to bask in euphoric delight and hope it never dies down.

"Bella?"

Hearing the winded tenor of a velvety voice I recognize all too well tentatively calling my name and hoping to earn my attention, my smile falters. My heart misses a few beats as a result and I feel the ease of the evening melt away, yielding to tension as I try to remain impassive. Trepidation and guilt courses through me at the memories this voice conjures and my heart catches in my throat, making my mouth dry.

Suddenly, I feel trapped and my fight or flight responses war within me as reality encumbers me. Closing my eyes to shut off the whirl of the world as it threatens to throw me for a loop momentarily, I try to take deep and steadying breathes.

Like always, it seems I've spoken too soon.

_..._

* * *

.

…

.

* * *

_..._

**_A/N: _**_First off: Thank you my lovely readers for taking the time to read "The Thief"_ _and hopefully enjoying it. If any one has a question(s) about anything in particular, please, feel free to ask. All questions are welcome and I'll be more than happy to answer any and every question._

_For a little back-story: This story is actually inspired by one of my favorite songs "The Thief" by Brooke Fraser. (In fact, I would suggest listening to the song, if you haven't already. It'll help set the mood for the rest of the story, given that the story and the song have the same title.) _

_So, while listening to this song one evening, the plot for this story unraveled and I had to give in, sit down, and write it. And I am very, very glad I gave in. It's been fun, writing this story and I can't wait to share more of it with everyone._

_Second: Depending on the response to this first chapter, I'm planning on uploading the next chapters (already written) every other week—meaning, biweekly. If anyone wants a teaser for the next chapter, _**Act Two: _Guilt, Remorse & Resentment, _**_all there is to it, let me know and I'll come through. _

_Once again, thank you so much for reading!_

_ Until next chapter,_

_ Amaterasu Kinesi _


	3. Act Two: Guilt, Remorse & Resentment

_**A/N: **__So I just wanted to point out that this chapter is out, earlier than promised, thanks to my wonderful and enthusiastic first reviewers. Therefore, thank you __**Twisted-Twilighter**__, __**EnchantedbyTwilight**__, and specially __**SunflowerFran**__. _

_You guys are wonderful readers and make this fun and worthwhile!_

_…_

* * *

.

…

.

* * *

**The Thief**

_**…**_

* * *

**Act Two: **_**Guilt, Remorse & Resentment**_

* * *

_…_

"Bella?" that familiar voice says again. This time, I feel the gentle but cool pressure of an equally familiar touch upon my right shoulder, accompanying the summons. With great effort, I manage not to shudder or flinch away from the intrusive and disconcerting touch.

_It will not do if I fall apart now… _

Thankfully, the hand falls away abruptly, taking with it all of the confusing memories flashing behind my fluttering eyelids. Leaving me feeling disoriented and as my eyes flash open again, I inhale sharply. Trying to compose myself, I swallow thickly around the lump in my throat, and after a moment's hesitation, I brace myself for what I must do.

Talking myself into giving the owner of the voice my undivided attention like I would anyone else, with a smile on my face and an impersonal disposition, I hold my own. Lifting my head high, I plaster a smile on my lips and square my shoulders. At least, I'd done the right thing once. Surely, I can do it again. Turning, I spin around to face the owner of the voice that often haunts my dreams and blames me within his rights.

"Edward," I greet. "I've been expecting you. When did you get here?"

Hopefully, I pray the ready smile on my lips looks genuine enough. My smile almost falters the moment I'm staring into his almond-shaped vibrant, jade-green eyes but then, his lips curl into a slow crooked smile and I know I've managed to fool him.

This time.

"Just now," he says. Eyes shifting without settling on anything, Edward is trying to distract himself with something else in order to not look me in the eyes and give himself away. I'm not the only one who's nervous, I realize. "I hope I'm not too late…"

"No, you're just in time."

Edward is still as handsome, lean, tall, and bright-eyed as I remember him, just a bit older now. Just at the corner of his eyes, I can make out the small creases of laugh lines that have deepened with time, since last I saw him. Enough to add character to his good looks rather than take from them and even the dimple under his lower lip seems to have weathered fairly. Also, if I'm not mistaken, I think his shoulders might have broaden…

However, the usual vibrant light that used to ember in his eyes has dulled and he looks haggard but impeccable as always. This single observation makes me worry much more than any other and has me hoping that I'm not the cause of the dimness in his eyes. Being the cause of that dimness will further break me…

After all, there was a time when the light in those jade-green eyes was something I couldn't go a day without seeing. Especially when they were laughing and turning from jade to emeralds, since they were always darker when Edward gave into mirth and yet, somehow they always seemed brighter, more intense that way. A sight worth seeing and one I did not want to have a part in eradicating from his character like with everything else I was all ready to blame for.

Even more unusual, for Edward anyway, his hair looks slightly more manageable than before. Though, on closer inspection, there's really no helping the chaotic state of his flyaway, coppery hair. Then again, even without the help of styling products, some of which are mostly meant to help accomplish the tousled look Edward's hair naturally grows into, his flyaway hair will always be just as fine and difficult to control. No matter how short Edward keeps it, like he has it now, he should know better.

"Oh." Edward clears his throat. "Good," he adds distractedly.

For a moment I find myself at a loss for what else to say. Nothing comes to mind. Not even a platitude. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, I, too, decide to look anywhere else but at Edward and watch the people passing us by instead, thankful for their welcome distraction.

From my periphery, I become aware of the burn of Edward's gaze and note that he is looking at me through wavering shadows of a guarded intent. However, he's putting forth a great effort into looking like he isn't steadily analyzing my disposition in reaction to his being here and thus, giving himself away. Still, I don't call him out on it.

Because, really, what's there for me to say to someone who's a could-have-been-lover turned buddy now? What more can I say to someone whose heart I broke, without adding insult to injury? But it seems that Edward is too kind for his own good and, like he did during graduation, he holds out an olive branch graciously without meaning to.

Through the medium of his jade-green eyes on me, I observe how hesitant and longing his gaze is as he takes in how I look tonight. All with an appreciative glint in his shadowed eyes and a tender smile on his lips. Just like that, I am reminded of why I thought I loved him in the first place and fought to make us work.

However, that was all before I couldn't find it in me to keep up the struggle and ran away in the burnt of my shame... _Now's not the time…_ Shaking my head and thoughts apart, I focus on the here and now, I focus on Edward.

"How do I look?" I ask demurely. Edward blinks, surprised now that I've caught him off guard, but I see a small smile unraveling as he processes my question and debates how to answer. Always the prudent thinker, Edward, and in order to waste none, constantly nitpicking his own words before voicing them. Suppressing a smirk as I watch him looking me over openly, I press, "Well?"

Clearing his throat, Edward says, "You look… _fantastic_…"

Feeling the familiar pink tinge blooming over the milky expanse of skin across the apple of my cheeks at the compliment and trying to hide my blush from his watchful eyes, I look down and gnaw self-consciously on my lower lip. However, this blush isn't due to embarrassment and I smile secretly. For once, I'm actually blushing because I believe him.

"Fantastic?" I scuff wryly. "Edward, really?"

"That is—" he stutters, "what I mean is—" Again, Edward pauses and clears his throat, flummoxed. Raising a brow to question his lack of eloquence, I smile coyly and he sort of squirms. Running his fingers haphazardly through the chaotic flurry of bronze that is his flyaway hair, Edward smiles wryly. Finally, sighing and lamely saying, "—you look really good, Bella." Grimacing slightly, he looks into my eyes pleadingly. "Lovely, as always but regal. I always did say that shade of blue makes you radiant."

Amusement dancing with a telling twinkle in my eyes, I witness Edward's uncharacteristic discomfort and momentary lack of eloquence with a sense of abandoned fondness. Now _this_ is a rare sight for the always-confident and eloquent Edward Masen I know.

Honestly, I think there's something really comforting about it and, suddenly, I find myself relaxing in his presence. The tension gradually eases from my shoulders within the next exhale. My next smile, too, feels less strained.

"That you did. Thank you," I say genuinely, chuckling slightly. He smiles shyly._ Another rare sight! _I laugh. "You don't look too bad yourself, for a Masen."

Visibly relaxing at the sound of my laughter, I watch as Edward's eyes also alight with mirroring amusement. The next second I'm watching that crooked smile that used to make me swoon and sigh within the same breath appear and take residence across Edward's asymmetric lips. Reaching his guarded eyes and lighting them from within to a ghost of that familiar, vibrant emerald-green I'm ever so fond of in his eyes.

However, his next words are much too restrained and polite in contrast.

"You're welcome, Bella," he murmurs, voice velvety warm and sincere-but clearly detached.

_So we're back to the triteness?_ I wonder and find that I am disappointed. So much has changed between us, I internally mourn. Edward has changed.

_No,_ I _changed him… _

By ruining him, I've ruined 'us' and the ease of the dynamic we used to share in the past when we were something more than just friends or acquaintances exchanging pleasantries. Strangely enough, I don't miss 'us' but I do miss the effortlessness of the friendship we once had.

The comradeship. That's what I miss from him and our entangled past. But things only happen once, even if history does manage to repeat itself, time goes on and it's unforgiving. There's no going back. Shaking my head in distaste, I silently berate myself, before focusing back on the here and now.

Inevitably, I sigh, due to the trajectory of my morose thoughts. Looking up into Edward's eyes with a sinking heart, I watch helplessly as his smile falters slightly and the emerald-green is his eyes washes out back to it's previously dull jade-green. My heart a pulsating lump in my throat for the second time in his presence, I hasten to remediate the situation before it can no longer be salvaged.

_Even if I am unable to redeem myself, we don't need any more awkward pauses for tonight. _

"It seems you're not the only one who can clean up good," I tease, trying to bring us back to the easy banter. "Alice and Rose have taught me all they can and now I've crossed over to the dark side."

"I can see that." Edward chuckles, almost humorlessly as a frown appears at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah, see," I say with mock smugness, "now you've done it. You've admitted I clean up good!"

Edward's eyes appraise me once again and I see a flash of something cross their jade-green fathoms, giving away a little more than a glimpse of the longing and desire that he's been trying to suppress throughout the span of our strained conversation. Meanwhile, I try not to look as guilty as I feel, else I might give into the malediction that is this wearing resentment I sometimes hold over him unwarranted.

"I've done no such thing!" he teases, ignoring his resurfacing memories.

As I recall, this is the first conversation we've had in far too long, at least face-to-face. But apparently, not long enough. So says his tortured gaze and the war I see raging behind Edward's morose jade-green eyes. Swallowing my own guilt, pain, and resentment, I push the unspoken accusations I see in his to the side and press forward.

"Masen, always in denial." Rolling my eyes at him, I pout and heave a sigh.

"Now, now, Swan," he admonishes in a lilting tone, eyes alight with a smile that almost makes it to emerald-green. "Ah, I see… This is all about making a statement, isn't it?"

"_Masen_," I scowl, wondering at the sudden ease... it almost makes me just as wary. "Luckily for you, I make statements every day…"

"For old time's sake…" Brows rising in a slight sign of mischief, Edward pulls his right hand out of his pocket, straightens his pointer finger into the air, and twirls it around in a circular motion, asking, "twirl for me, Swan?"

Momentarily flummox by his unexpected request, I gape at him openly. It's a simple enough request but I can tell it makes him nervous and by extension, it makes _me _nervous too. The way his other hand is twitching at his side is a dead giveaway. That one simple gesture is a telltale sign that Edward wants to rake his fidgeting fingers through his hair again and mess it up some more, just so he can have something to do.

Also, despite the smile he has plastered across his lips, the corners of his eyes look taut with tension and that makes me hesitate a moment longer. But then I shrug inwardly. What can it hurt?_ Oh, yes, me._

"Uh… way to go, Edward," I grumble, "putting me on the spot like that."

"I didn't mean…" Edward looks mildly apologetic.

"Sure you didn't." I roll my eyes. "I'll probably regret this… but okay."

"Okay?" he breathes, surprised. I nod. "Really?" He finally runs that hand through his hair, chuckling nervously. "Great."

_You know, I think I want to take it back…_ Now Edward's looking relieved with that stupid crooked grin in place and gazing down at me expectantly.

_Why is he doing that? Oh, right… _

"Right," I mutter under my breath, "_twirl_." I sigh heavily, feeling awkward. Shrugging, I start to turn for Edward, slowly, and notice that he's holding his breath as he watches my every move. To distract myself, I continue on to say, "If I fall, Edward Anthony Masen, I'm blaming you and come haunt you if there's any lasting damage."

"Not on my watch. If you start falling, I'll catch you," he assures me, voice low and persuasive as if not to startle me into falling. "So there's no need for snarky threats, Swan."

"Why thank you, Masen, I feel safer already."

"Really, Bella…" Edward prims up his mouth and shakes his head.

"You know," I chuckle, "Rosalie and my mother almost had a heart attack when they saw me in this dress."

"I wonder why…" he trails off, muttering something that I can't quite make out. My eyes narrow, I think I know where he's going with this. "From what I saw earlier, you're missing more than half of your dress," he continues. "Did you happen to take that up with the seamstress?"

"You're beginning to sound just like Charlie now," I grumble and roll my eyes, even though he can't see me doing so. "And no, sorry." Edward snorts.

"How did your new sense of fashion go over with the Chief?" he teases.

My widening smile morphed into a smirk as I recall my father's reaction to the dress, his grudging compliment, and my mother's silent admonishment to his grumbled protest. Despite my obvious embarrassment and protests, it makes me happy to know that my dad still looks out for me like that. As someone too precious and dear that's still too young to have 'boys' looking at her with desire in their beady eyes. Of course, I'll never tell him that.

"Not well." Lifting my skirt slightly so I won't get all tangled in my dress, I continue to turn.

"You're even wearing heels," he observes as his eyes stray downward. I nod.

"I am," I agree softly.

Once I have my back to Edward and can no longer watch him without craning my neck, I gaze over my left shoulder at him and smile demurely. The intensity with which he is watching me from head to toe, taking in every inch and curve of exposed and covered flesh my dress adorns makes me feel warm, and flushed, almost ruffled.

"But considering… Better than expected." Trying to distract myself, I continue, "Renee talked him out of being too overbearing, that is."

Especially when his eyes trace the trajectory of exposed skin to my lower back and his gaze lingers, vacillating between the dimples at the small of my back that he never got to fully explore with lustful appreciation. This time, I notice how his hands are twitching with the effort it takes him to not reach out, touch, caress, and pull me in and under his arm. Something he would have done in the past without hesitation.

"That would have been fun to watch," he comments distractedly.

Instead, Edward fists his hands and pockets them to keep temptation at bay, while I pretend not to notice his struggle or desires and remain otherwise unaffected. Slowly, his Adam's apple bobs along his neck as he swallows thickly and clears his throat, finally bringing his jade-green eyes up to mine. Averting my eyes from his, I twirl the rest of the way for him and don't pause until I am facing him once again.

"Alice tells me I've done her proud," I say, clearing my throat. "The first thing out of her mouth when she saw me…"

Chuckling distractedly as someone touches my shoulder in greeting, I trail off and watch Edward following the impersonal exchange with a frown that borders on a scowl. This surprises me, since I've never known him to be the jealous type.

"Sounds like Alice." Now he's the one chuckling, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Before I found you, I saw her talking to Jacob and had to go say hi."

"That's surprising," I muse. "Guess those two are getting along better now that they don't have to be around each other so much."

"Don't hold your breath, their smiles were a little too wide and Alice's voice was a little too silvery-sweet." Edward's eyes are back on mine and that crooked smile looks more like a grimace. "I think they were just playing nice and trying to be civil for your sake, since tonight is your night and all."

"Figures…" I nod. Though my heart aches for him and I want to do something to ease this pain, I remind myself that I was the one that put it there in the first place. Therefore, I have no right to try and make it go away, so I leave it alone. "Makes much more sense. Alice is always complaining about Jake giving her a headache every time he's in the room."

"I remember," Edward chuckles, the twinkle in his eyes impish and a welcome sight. "So…"

"What?" I ask impatiently. Edward smiles wryly. Rolling my eyes, I huff. "Just spit it out, Edward."

"You still get your feathers so easily ruffled, Swan?" he teases.

"I'm waiting." Scowling, I fix him with my best glare and cross my arms over my chest, demonstrating just how impatiently I'm waiting by tapping my foot.

"Alright, alright," he laughs. "You're gonna wear a hole in my soul, you know, so stop glaring!"

"Start _talking_," I challenge. Shaking his head, Edward rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. This repartee feels so familiar and easy that I can almost pretend, for a while, that nothing's changed.

"I'm speechless, just like Alice said I would be," he finally hedges. "Actually, she was the one that told me you looked phenomenal. That I wouldn't recognize you _if_ I managed to find you, bound not to."

"Did she now?" I frown. _ Alice really needs to stop meddling…_ He nods.

"Or be rendered speechless, like I said." I smile but it feels a little strained. Thankfully, lost in his own thoughts, Edward doesn't notice. "And I have to agree. I almost didn't," he whispers.

The words are so low that I'm sure I'm not meant to hear them so I keep quiet and let him compose himself for a short period. When his eyes linger on my mouth a beat too long, I know it is high time for me to say something. Anything.

"Well, Alice will be Alice," I muse, trying to bring back the lighter mood. "Of course, Alice is nothing if not foreseeing and assertive."

"Indeed she is."

Companionable silence stretches between us for a short while after that, each of us lost in our own morose thoughts. Frequently our silence is disturbed as people come up to me and congratulate me. Some asking questions about my works every so often to quench their curiosity behind the inspiration that led me to create _Requiem's Key_.

* * *

_…_

* * *

"It's good to see you, after such a long time." Edward tells me quietly as he breaks the silence between us a short while later, his jade-green gaze moving back and forth between mine beseechingly. Looking at Edward, I know he means it and my smile is genuine once again.

"The feeling is mutual, Edward," I admit. Leaning forward, I kiss each of his high cheeks without lingering, just like his mother used to do to me whenever I visited. As I do this, Edward becomes instantly stoical as his face becomes as expressionless as a mask.

"Bella…" Edward's breath hitches as his façade crumbles slightly and I know he's stopped breathing. And even though I'm not really touching him, I can tell his heart is beating erratically with the start of my unexpected actions and proximity.

"Thank you for coming to my show, Edward." Frowning, I try to ignore my growing uneasiness and throw caution to the wind. Stretching on my tiptoes, I lean forward again, glad that I'm in heels and the added height will make what I want to do easier, and place my right hand on his shoulder for support. Drawing closer still, I get close enough to Edward without having to press my body in contact with his. Just close enough so that my lips can hover over his right ear and whisper, "I really mean that."

"Thank you for inviting me," he replies in kind, tone husky as he swallows thickly and the tremor that runs over his body is pronounced in his voice. For an infinitesimal second, I feel Edward's fingertips tremulously touching the small of my back like the whisper of a sigh before it's gone and I think I might have imagined it.

"It's the least I could do. I wanted my friends here." Reminding myself that I don't need Edward to get the wrong idea, I backtrack a little. Putting some distance between us without being too obvious, I smile kindly up at Edward.

"I know," he answers and I know he really does, since his gaze is guarded once more.

"As elusive as it might or might not seem to you while looking at my art, Edward," I continue, "my memories of you and our time together are spread over each brushstroke of my canvases."

"Why?" His confusion is clear and painful, almost accusatory. Once again, my unwarranted onslaught against his emotional citadel is breaking the walls of his fortress with gestures that in his mind contradict everything I've told him in the past.

"Because I wanted, no—" Shaking my head, I interrupting myself and correct my explanation, saying, "I _needed _to immortalize what we had, Edward."

"I don't understand…" Edward hisses out a sharp breath and frowns, looking tormented. My heart goes out to him but I dare not touch him.

"The good and the bad," I continue, "because it happened and it's our story, so I chose to tell it the only way I know how. _Everything_ with you mattered… I want you to know that, Edward."

This is a confession and a concession, the only one I am willing to risk offering, without breaking the precarious truce we silently made during the UW graduation. The truce that allows us a phone call about once a month to catch up with each other and exchange pleasantries, without promises of there being another call. Even though there's always another call, since this truce allows us to miss and seek each other.

My calls continue to reach him because I am selfish like that and Edward, because he is that kind and that unwilling to let me go-or to lose that small hope that might bring me back to him someday. Still, I feel nauseous enough to throw up every time I hang up the phone after one of our phone calls and I often do end up vomiting, without reprieve. My own weakness makes me sick, apparently.

"I think—I've always… Thank you," Edward whispers plaintively. Though his green gaze is filled with questions that he wouldn't dare voice as he stares at his shoes, I know he wants to ask them. With that simple gesture, Edward's telling me that he understands everything I'm not willing to say. "You've always mattered to me, too, Bella… And you always will, I hope you know that."

"I do."

The calls continue because twice a year Edward calls me, drunk from whatever hellhole of a bar he is in, and drowning his sorrows. Like clockwork, the incoming calls are always on the same dates each year. One comes in August—the anniversary of the day he'd officially asked me to become his girlfriend and I'd accepted. The second call, the one that really hits him hard every time, comes in February—the day I had asked him to let me go and put an end to our relationship and broke his heart, ruining him for anyone else.

"Thank you," I whisper, "and I am sorry." But my words do not reach his ears and for that, I am glad.

No matter how unwilling I might be about taking any of his other calls, I will always make a point of answering these two calls. Because, otherwise, I'll worry about what might happen if I don't. In the end, it is obvious that I'm still as self-serving as ever… _selfish_.

"That means a lot," says Edward and I can hear the tear in his voice, making my heart contract as I watch his hands begin to shake and his futile attempts to stop them from shaking.

Reaching out like and taking his hands in mine to stop them from shaking like I want to would be simple, but I don't because I can't. Those four words stop me. Just four, simple little words that might seem like they don't amount to much but on Edward's tongue, they might as well be morphing as he speaks them and saying something else entirely.

Something like:

_I still love you. I still need you. You are ruining me…_

_Why do you do this to me? _

_Can't you see I'm in misery?_

But I know Edward and I know he isn't aware that his underlying words are so transparent to me, any more than my guilt might be to him. Somewhere along the way, there was a shift and our roles were reversed.

Now I'm the one left to find the right words to remind him of why all this heartache is what must be and why he should stay away from me. Therefore, I try not to let my resolve waver or let my heart feel anything for the broken man before me, since I made him this way.

Edward doesn't deserve my pity and I don't deserve to have the means of a way to justify this heartache. Everything I've done by him will always remain irredeemably.

Instead, I smile sadly and say, "I know."

In that moment, as Edward continues to stare down at his feet and I at him, everything I'm not willing to say crosses my mind in a flurry as my heart pounds achingly against my chest. Its rhythm is smooth, flowing, and without breaks between beats.

Each legato beat plaintively crying:

_Please, Edward, stop waiting for me. _

_We are over. We've been over. We were never meant to be. _

_However, I still love you, just not as much as you deserve._

_Never as much as you deserved… _

_And for that, I'm sorry. _

_I am so sorry…_

As if Edward can somehow hear every single one of these thoughts running rampant around my head, he looks up at me and meets my eyes sadly with a knowing look, nodding his agreement. Making up his mind, Edward begins to say, "I hope—"

"Sorry. Excuse me. Has anyone seen—?"

"How are Sr. Edward and Elizabeth?" I rush to say, interrupting him and being obvious about it as my eyes tell him that this isn't the time or place to have this conversation. Resigned, Edward sighs in acquiesce and runs his fingers through his array of bronze chaos with a small nod, reluctantly accepting my silent promise of 'later.'

"Mom and dad are good," he offers. "When I talked to them earlier, I believe they said they'll be here tonight as well."

"Finally! There you are…"

"That's —" I start.

"Excuse me…"

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my bare shoulders. Seeing as Edward is glaring at owner of that hand, I take a moment and look for myself. Staring down at my right shoulder, I see slender, pale fingers engulfing it and squeezing slightly.

"Bella, you must come with me," says a voice I now recognize as Aro Volta's, the gallery's sole courier.

"What?" I ask distractedly, I frown. Craning my neck and looking up at Aro's statuesque form, I see he's staring at me pointedly. "I don't—"

"If you'll excuse us," interjects Aro self-righteously, before I can even fully form my sentence.

"I'm sorry," I mouth to Edward but I don't think he sees me… By the time he blinks, we're already moving and his eyes are on Aro. Stirring me around pass Edward with both of his hands now firmly on my shoulders guiding me along and with a final curt nod in Edward's flabbergasted direction, Aro swiftly proceeds to whisk me away.

Flummoxed doesn't begin to cover how I feel about being manhandled without so much as being given a chance to protest, when my feet begin moving forward on their own and yield to his propelling will. Traitorous body…

* * *

…

* * *

"Honestly, Aro, you—" I begin to protest, rounding on Aro the moment I can no longer see Edward's stricken face over my shoulder without having to squint. Proceeding to dig my heels in, hoping to halt the course to our destination.

"Shut it, Swan," interrupts Aro promptly, that sardonic trademark smile of his in place and much to my chagrin, pushes me along without breaking stride, easily pressing forward. "I don't want to hear it."

"Did you have to go about it so rudely, Volta?"

Huffing, I shrug Aro's guiding hands off my shoulders in attempt to regain some semblance of control over the situation. Not one easily derailed, Aro grasps onto my upper instead and continues to guide us along the snaking path between the assembled groups of chatting people as he pulls me along.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles. "I'm always polite. It's my job description."

"_Jerk_. Civil is more like it," I grumble under my breath, low enough that he shouldn't hear me. But given the sardonic smirk he's giving me as he looks down at me, I think he did. Contemplating about possibly tripping on purpose and stalling, I roll my eyes at him.

_That won't do, I'm wearing a dress… _

"I recognize a cry for help when I one," he continues, "and you, my dear Bella, were practically screeching for help."

"I was not," I object unconvincingly.

"Sure you weren't." That sardonic smile of his returns, making me bristle as Aro gives me a pointed look and tugs me along. Sighing heavily, I give in, reluctantly letting myself be tugged at Aro's galvanic pace and say the only thing I can say at this point.

"Thank you," I say. "And thanks for not asking."

"You are welcome. Besides, it's not my place to ask."

"Of course. However, that doesn't stop many from asking…"

My sense of relief given the growing distance between Edward and myself is so staggering in its magnitude that I don't know what to think about it. Except that, even though there's more than enough distance between us now to keep the guilt to a dull throb, I realize that being under the same roof with Edward is suffocating enough as it is and there's no escaping it. And once again, I feel guilt and regret gnawing at me with each step.

"Of course, I'm not 'many' and I'll have you know…" Aro begins, trailing of as someone waves us over.

As the conversation with the complacent artist who called us over prolongs and he insists on asking about a space after driving me crazy with his incessant nosiness, I'm starting to feel impatient. Sensing this, Aro excuses us in order to placate me and we leave behind the artist whose name I've already forgotten.

Hopefully, Aro will throw his business card away and never call the irritating man. I have no patience for people who pretend to know about art, when the obviously don't. And from what I've gathered, neither does Aro so I think it's a fair bet to assume that that is the last I've seen of that man.

"Good riddance," I mutter and I watch Aro smirk out of the periphery. "You better not call him…"

We are once again swiveling through the seemingly stagnant flurry of people while making short stops here and there to socialize some along the way, before Aro is able to speak again. "As I was saying," he continues. "I didn't pull you away, just to rescue you from your boy drama, Bella."

"Aro…" My breath catches, an argument ready and spiteful at the tip of my tongue before I remember whom I'll be trying to fool, no nonsense Aro Volta. There's really no point wasting my breath here. So instead, I do what I can to rule in my temper and nod jerkily. "Of course," I deadpan.

"Come this way," he instructs, jerking us to the left and in the direction of the swirling stairs. Ushering me up the flight of stairs by my right elbow and on to the second floor, Aro further explains and says, "We need a little discretion and quiet for what we're about to discuss."

"Lead the way," I say unnecessarily. "I'm intrigued."

* * *

…

* * *

Promptly reaching the last step onto the landing, Aro lets go of my arm and I continue to follow behind his long, purposeful strides along the second floor corridor in silence. Just as Aro vanishes behind the center wall entrance that so effectively and efficiently houses the private offices of the gallery through its threshold and I make to follow, I stumble.

_That was close… _Inhaling a shaky breath, I chuckle darkly, and attempt to put one foot in front of the other without stumbling again as I continue forth.

Gasping, my breath catches in my throat as I feel a peculiar burning sensation that begins to unfurl, curling and licking up my vertebrae, steadily consuming. Trying to alleviate the searing ache, I press the cool palm of my left hand to my lower back but the scorching only continues to intensify.

The swerving sensation, as foreign as it is familiar, stops me in my tracks just as I reach the wide threshold leading into the office space with the force of its precipitation. As I brace my right palm against the frame's edge, I drop my head and blow out a long breath while my heart constricts painfully in my chest.

Hope, trepidation, and anticipation are a tidal wave of confusing oppositions within me, threatening to overtake every other emotion, except the infernal phenomenon curling and licking its path higher up my scalding spine.

Pushing my fears aside, I swallow and decide I can't go on without knowing…

_…_

* * *

.

…

.

* * *

**_…_**

_**A/N:**__ Thank you for reading! This was a longer chapter than the last but the average chapter shall remain as long as the previous one. Like before, if anyone wants a teaser for the next chapter, _**Act Three: **_**My Tortured Beacon**__,_ _let me know and I'll make it happen. Or simply review._

_ Until next chapter,_

_ Amaterasu Kinesi_


	4. Act Three: My Tortured Beacon

**_In Memory of a Dearly Departed,_**

**_Sylvia Patricia M. (1990-2013)_**

_**A true fighter if I've ever known one.** _

**_…_**

* * *

.

…

.

* * *

**The Thief**

_**…**_

* * *

**Act Three: **_**My Tortured Beacon**_

* * *

…

Leaving my right palm to remain braced against the frame's edge for support, I turn my back on Aro and the office space halfway and glance behind over my shoulder. Staring down bellow toward the first floor of the gallery, my breathing staggers, and my heart speeds away along with my somersaulting thoughts, leaving behind the emphatic humming of my pulse in my ears.

Fixating my eyes on the entrance, I hold my breath and watch as the automatic doors begin to slide open silently, allowing someone passage. Within the next moment, the doors open entirely and an impeccably dressed and presumably tall figure, wearing a tailored charcoal gray suit and pinstriped fedora hat, enters through the gallery's threshold.

Once inside, the individual takes three steps into the gallery's vestibule and stops short of integrating with the rest of the crowded foyer. The very fact that this individual doesn't join the rest of the party and remains unnoticed gives me pause and makes it nigh impossible for me to turn away and forget my nagging suspicion. Consequently, I find myself entranced by this individual and watchful…

Separated from the rest of the ongoing bustle as this peculiar individual is and providing me with an unobtrusive view, I easily and decidedly surmise that the figure is male with a calculating onceover. Everything about this individual's posture indicates that this person is male, without doubt.

From the way this individual bears and displays a reluctance to be a part of the whole by simply standing with a shoulder-width stance and hunched, defeated-looking shoulders, while staring at leather-clad feet and wearing a thoughtful frown upon symmetrical lips. However, I can't see much of the rest of the man's face.

Therefore, I can't be absolutely certain since most of the individual's face remains a mystery casted in shadows as a result of the pinstriped fedora hat, which the man is stylishly wearing low over his brow. Irritably, giving me no other indication as to what he might actually look like under it and further spiking my curiosity.

Making me wonder whether the man is old or young or somewhere in between. Something I can't say for sure from this far distance. However, I can make an educated guess and surmise that this man must be relatively young, otherwise. Venturing a guess from the bend of his taciturn stoop, which shows none of the signs of old age gnarls that atrophies most of the elderly, to the exposed sun-kissed neck and hands, and all-around enigmatic demeanor that borders on stoic that surrounds the individual.

Questions plague my mind as I wonder about what else this man's body language might give away about who he might be and what or who might have brought him here. Because clearly, it isn't the art, given that he isn't looking around at any of the works and simply staring at his shoes as if they hold all the answers.

Overall, giving the impression of being a very pessimistic, solemn, and dejected individual—just, not overtly youthful and not quite up there in years. Looking him over once more, I decide that I want to see more in order to know more and quench my growing curiosity before I am sent into a tailspin.

As I continue to observe in my search for further clues, the man's shoulders raise and fall as a heavy sigh leaves his weary body and then the man proceeds to shake his head somberly, simultaneously pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve some of his tension. Everything about this man fuels me with intrigue in that same sigh and I realize that, not only do I _want_ to know more about this man, but I _need _to know and find out more about this enigmatic individual.

Otherwise, I might go crazy with the jumble of questions multiplying in my mind's protracted conflict. There is no question in my mind that I _need_ to know more about what might be behind that deflating sigh that seemed to add to how weighed down he all ready appears. Also, the reasons this man might have for just standing there, within this crowded room, without bringing attention to his arrival.

In that frame of mind, and because I just can't seem to find or posses the strength of will needed to take my eyes off this stranger, I take the rest of him in with my critical artist's eye. All in the name of curiosity, I always say.

(To loosely quote one of my favorite professors at the UW: "_One might never know when inspiration might find one and strike. Much less when one's next subject might stare one in the face if one isn't paying careful attention. Therefore, always keep a weather eye on your surroundings. Art is all around you, always. Observe, for one's always the observed._")

Henceforth, I've taken that to mean that I have creative license to be openly nosy and snoop, whenever or wherever curiosity gets the better of me. Like now with this unaware and total stranger. Obviously, there must be something special about someone who can capture someone's eye while simply standing in a crowded room filled with eye-catching goings-on and not disappear within the flurry. All the while, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible and deflect attention from less observant individuals unlike myself.

_Again, like this man…_ Or maybe _not_ so inconspicuous, I muse.

As the man starts patting down his pants' pockets with hastily impatient but fluid movements in search of something, I observe him attentively. Not finding what he's looking for, he then reaches a hand into his left back pocket, retrieving a cell phone.

Frowning as my intrigue reaches new heights, I take a step forward without meaning to, but my hand remains daintily pressed onto the frame's edge for balance. Swiping a thumb over the 'talk' button impatiently and placing the device against his ear, the man listens with a deepening frown of the lips without saying a word.

So quickly I might have imagined it, presumably after the person at the other end of the line has finished speaking, the man says something into the phone without pause and promptly ends the call. Pocketing the cell phone into the back pocket of his dress pants once again, the man goes back to his previous state of taciturnity like a wind up toy that's completed its purpose and stills.

_What was that all about? _I find myself wondering as the man with the pinstriped fedora hat continues to prove just how much of an enigma he actually is by simply being. Just as I'm thinking this, the man clutches at his chest in an absentminded manner that tells me he does that often. Shortly after, the man glances around as if he's just now noticing where he is and the number of people gathered around him. As he does, his posture becomes slightly frigid and he takes a step back.

Griping tightly onto the frame's edge, I bite my lip in an effort not to cry out in protest. My heart pounds frantically in my chest as the sensitive sensor on the automatic double doors register the man's movements and opening wide. The man startles at the whirring movement and glances longingly at the outside…

By now, I feel my hand going numb and realize that my grip must be white-knuckled but I can't force myself to ease up. I'm too afraid that if I do, the man will exit the gallery with the same lethargy my hand will regain its circulation once I let go. Therefore, it feels like I shouldn't let go and I don't.

In vain, hoping for the best. Seeing as after hesitating and debating about what to do, the next instant the man takes a step forward and—

"What are you staring at so intently, Miss Swan?" Aro asks, startling me out of my thoughts and causing me to jump slightly in response. His voice is clearly amused, though there's an underlying irritation as he says, "Easy there..."

"_Christ_…" Clutching at my chest to keep my heart from beating right out of it, I gasp and attempt to take calming deep breaths as I face Aro. "Don't you know how _not_ to give someone a heart attack, Aro?" I accuse, while my heart continues beating frantically in my throat and threatening to burst.

"Certainly," he deadpans and chuckles. Frowning, I bite my lower lip distractedly. _When did Aro finally noticing my reluctance to follow him?_ I'd practically forgotten all about him and our impending discussion…

"I like me alive, you know." Playfully nudging Aro on his side with my shoulder, I smirk fondly and glance sideways at him. Abandoning all pretences, I blatantly face toward the entrance of the gallery and lean against the frame's edge, eyes searching for the pinstriped fedora hat man. Of course, I don't have to search long…

"Believe me, I like you alive too," he says, nudging me back.

"Then we are in agreement," I deadpan.

My attention and eyes are once again on the man and I'm relieved to see that he hasn't exited the premises. Otherwise, I might have been tempted to leave and follow him… Instead, he's standing as still and frozen as before by the entrance, stooped with consternation and indecision, while the chattering crowd continues talking and streaming around him without need of his integration into the 'flow' of things.

_He's like a rock in a river_, I muse in amazement. Remaining unmoved and unchanged, while everything around him continues to flow.

"However, will you join me, please?" Aro hints, continuing, "We still have some things to discuss before you can go back and join your supporters."

Lost in my own musings and barely listening, I nod. Thinking: _Also, there's something about this man that appeals to me and I can't venture a guess as to what it might be._ Can't quite put my finger on it, but I know there's something about this individual... something strangely _familiar_...

This man plagues me like a memory that can't be quite forgotten but insists on being elusive, like something from a dream within a dream that leaves you with a confounding sense of déjà vu. Still, the elusiveness doesn't take away from the fun and prospect of the mystery. Instead, it simply adds to the thrill and dread of the impending unknown as the stakes are raised.

"Sure," I answer distractedly. Holding my breath, I stare expectantly as the man reaches some kind of conclusion and flexes his left arm with purpose.

"Bella…" Impatiently waving Aro off as his hand touches my shoulder lightly, I sigh irritably and shake him off, discreetly as I can manage.

Meanwhile, the man makes a move and raises his sun-kissed left hand, while his arm bends inward, and then his wrist bends slightly, allowing his fingers to reach toward the top on his head to brush against the hem of the pinstriped fedora hat. The man's hand hovers there for a moment of debating indecision as his fingertips glide teasingly over the hem's edge, deliberating to remove the hat but he then reconsiders doing otherwise and his hand falls back onto his side limply.

"In a minute," I continue. Scowling slightly in disappointment, I huff out a dissatisfied breath. "Just get whatever you need to show me ready for when I join you, Aro."

Now I'm pouting and again the man's palm is pressing absently against his chest as if feeling for something and assuring that its still there since the last time he checked. A memory stirs and begins to take form in my mind's eye… but I quickly extinguish it before it has time to fully form and try not to go there again.

"I'll be with you in a moment," —I look back up at Aro briefly and smile reassuringly— "Promise."

"If you insist," sighs Aro.

Clearly, I've noticed, the man has a flare for dramatics.

"I…" The insistent buzzing sound of a vibrating cell phone reaches my ears and cuts me off. Glancing in the direction of its origin my eyes follow the movement of Aro's hand, fingers reaching into the breast pocket of his mackinaw coat and retrieving his _Samsung Galaxy III_ cell phone.

"It's a text," he mumbles distractedly as he gazes down at the lit up screen. Swiping a thumb over the phone's screen to unlock it, he reads the text. With a slight, disapproving frown furrowing his brow, Aro rereads the text another three times and hisses in irritation.

"Everything okay?" I ask nervously, though I don't know why.

"Uh… yeah." So unlike himself, Aro looks seemingly flummoxed. "Just another client with a ridiculous sense of entitlement, is all."

"Okay…"

He nods, scanning the crowd too quickly for me to follow what he searched for and found and shaking his head dismissively before turning his eyes back on me. "Find me when you're done with… whatever…"

"Will do," I agree quietly. Still puzzled by Aro's strange and uncharacteristic behavior, I look at him expectantly.

"That's all I ask," he murmurs and stares back at me.

Looking like he wants to tell me something but doesn't know if he should, Aro opens his mouth and then closes it a couple times, deciding against it in the end. With one last conflicted look shooting across Aro's steel-gray eyes, he shakes his head, sighs, and dejectedly walks away with soundless steps.

Minutely marveling as to how he gets away with that, given his statuesque stature, I take a moment to watch him go… chuckling to myself as he disappears into the file room. Sighing and shrugging at whatever that was, I turn my attention back to my mystery man and I'm glad to see that he's still standing where I can see him.

Exactly where he was before, by the entrance. _How considerate of him._ Well, not _exactly_. Let me reiterate that. Actually, the man is now looking conflicted and it seems that, while my back was to him, he stepped further into the gallery's foyer, enough to not activate the automatic doors' sensor by accident again.

_Good, he's not planning to leave then…_

Continuing my previous inspection, I notice that the man with the fingers of pinstriped fedora hat are fidgeting with, presumably, his car keys and his shoulders are tense with nervous energy that's waiting to be put to rest or spent. Faster than it seems possible for anyone as tense as this man is, the man lets go of all that energy, allowing his wide shoulders to relax, and shrouds himself in an air of confidence and effortlessness the next second.

Just as he pockets his keys with easy, graceful movements of his wrists and elegant, long fingers, he tilts his pinstriped fedora hat back slightly with his left pointer finger from under the hem of his hat. This small change allows me to spy the newly exposed telltale glimpse of little more than the tip of what could be a symmetrical nose and better take in the fitting strong jaw that had been previously cast into too much shadow.

Predictably, I feel my hand twitch with the urge to draw. Longing for my box of pencils, along with my sketchbook so that I can capture his likeness and immortalize this moment before it is gone. It seems only natural, that I want to capture that hint of a five o'clock shadow this enigmatic man has growing in and the slight shadowing that indicates he might have a substantial cleft to his chin.

However, the next instance I'm shaking my head back into the here and now, because the man is suddenly straightening up from his forlorn stoop as if he's been electrified. For all I know, maybe he was. Mesmerized, I watch as he holds his head and chin up high, pulls his shoulders back, expands his chest in a manner that looks awfully familiar to me, and skims his eyes purposefully over the assembly with his face still obscured from my eyes.

Thus, my irritation with his fedora hat continues to grow, grating on my shambling patience and reaching its peak, when his elegantly long fingers reach up to put an end to it. A fraction of a second later, he pulls up his hand with purpose toward the hem of his pinstriped fedora hat—I hold my breath, _waiting_—and the man proceeds to remove the offending thing off as his body shifts away from me, revealing… gold-spun locks that fall haphazardly from under his hat in tousled waves to just above the neckline of his dress shirt.

My breath hitches. _Really?_ I huff in irritation. Just my luck… And here I thought I was _finally_ going to get a glimpse of his face! However, he does have lovely hair and a taught, wide, and strong-looking back... I can even see a hint of how well toned this man must be as his muscles ripple from under his suit and dress shirt as he starts to lower his arm, pinstriped fedora hat in hand.

My heart becomes frantic with an unsettling suspicion as I continue to stare at him, urging the stranger to turn my way and show me his face. Meanwhile, I take the opportunity to familiarize myself with his gold-spun tousled locks, which are turning out to be more of a wheat color the longer I examine his hair.

_So very familiar… down to the mannerisms…_

Frowning, I find myself wondering, yet again, what it is about this man that tickles me so and makes my heart thunderstorm. But then he is turning my way and I hold my breath, knowing that all my questions will be answered the moment I see his face. My rational thinking scatters and I feel almost giddy, there's no need for me to continue wondering...

Before long, I finally get to see his face and my breathing leaves me in a rushed exhale, while my frantic heart sputters and painfully clenches in my chest. White knuckled, I try not to panic and grip onto the frame's edge until my fingers grow numb. My eyes are growing wide the longer I stare at this man in delirious perplexity. Momentarily, I forget how to breathe and then, I blink—I _do _know him.

It can'tbe… Just… It _can't_. But it is… It _is_.

Looking closely at the man's face, sculpted with refined symmetry from underneath his skin and bones, attesting to a higher power, I see only _Him_. Impossibly, time slows down to a withering crawl and even my breathing slows, before finally halting, altogether. Even sound falls back and fades in the intermit…

Music is the only reason I know time still exists as it continues to play in the background, a dichotic symphony that barely registers. Apart from that everything else remains suspended. Except for the frantic marcato of my heartbeat and _Him_.

This man is uniquely his own. He _is_ motion itself and naturally, all he does is flow galvanically wherever he goes. Always commanding in essence, his demeanor tranquil in nature. Now I understand and realize, this explains _everything_.

In the form of this blond, tall, and lean man, I have the answer and explanation to the familiar burning sensation that started earlier and still courses through me. The visceral sensation only _He _erupts within me and can't be dismissed, much less ignored as long as _He _remains in the room. Since I always feel him before I see him, I should have known…

No, I _did _know. I did know that— My breath leaves me in a rush as I allow myself to think his name… and I fell my blood turn to honey as I _look_ at him.

Just when I find myself thinking that the anticipation and anxiety might kill me if he doesn't hurry up and look at me, he does. It is as if he's heard the whisper of his name cross my mind. In that visceral moment that fills me with irrational fear, he directs his gaze toward the second floor landing. When his intense gaze sweeps over everything within view and myself once, I'm filled with this inexplicable and desperate urge to run…

The moment he realizes he might have overlooked something, he stills and does a double take. A tremor runs through him when his fixating gaze lands on me and I'm still not ready for the recognition I'll find there. But like a fatal car crash, ugly and unavoidable in process, I can't look away and stare right back at him.

Eyes widening in delighted surprise and recognition as he registers who I am, he looks me over and inspects my face curiously. When his eyes wander all over my figure and take in what I'm wearing, he admires me from afar and a tender smile tugs at the corners of his kissable mouth. That one smile tells me how much he remembers… and I feel that chronic-like flare concentrated on my coccyx ablaze.

Trying to read me, he meets my eyes and his answering smile as he finds me already staring right back at him is filled with such sorrow that I feel it as my own. It _is _my own. Ashamed of what I might find there as I watch, he averts his gaze but it doesn't stray far. Opting to trace the form of my sanguine lips with his eyes, instead.

Eventually, since he is anything but a coward, he forces his eyes back up to meet mine again and his gaze stays, causing the ache on my spine flare up and pierce straight through my heart. The vulnerability I find dwelling in his eyes causes my heart to move and form a lump in my trachea as I swallow down tears I'm refusing to let fall. Longing and admiring is his mournful gaze, intense and questioning.

Those autumn eyes of his are like a window of idiosyncrasy, constantly and unwittingly insisting on letting me in on all of his secrets and revealing them to be encumbered by a two of a kind type of yearning. Too telling.

_Dangerous._

And yet, even though I know I should, I still can't look away. Despite all the warnings, I've never been able to look away from the sight of him. Therefore, I don't even try to fight this strange and inexplicable connection we share and give in. In turn, taking _Him_ in. Instantly, I see that his eyes are still as peculiarly breathtaking and somber as I remember them to be with more shadows than I recall.

Once more, I think and tell myself something that I've told myself in the past. That if he and I—we—were our bodies, our cultures, our rejections, our successes, our indignities, our denials, and our emotions I'd be joining him. Instead, we are separated by an entire gallery and looking uncomfortable in his own skin, while I remain mind-boggled and unable to go to him. But mostly, he's still beautiful…

With a tug that borders on nauseating, I feel the telltale flutter of butterflies come back to life in my belly and expanding with a maddening crescendo. Their effect renders my breathing shallow and that flaring beacon continues to burn steadily, and pivoting on consuming, the longer he stares at me like this. Like he _wants_ and _needs_ me. Like he's missed me and I'm the cause of his ailment as well as the cure. Like he'll be ruined and broken twice over if I turn from him, again…

So I don't.

Cradling a hand over my frantic heart, I attempt to keep my breathing under control, before it matches the pulse in my veins, and focus on trying to somehow decipher what his gaze might be telling me. Anything, so long as it gives me some semblance of purpose, before I become overwhelmed by each new sensation his impending nearness conjures.

In his eyes, I find a promise that reveals his intention of impending approach and a fervent plea to remain where I am until he does. Unable to do otherwise, I nod my agreement and exhale. Satisfied, he's on the move. During the next heartbeat, I am breathing in once again and it no longer feels like I'm breathing under water. In fact, it feels like my first breath within the last five years, devoid of arduous struggling.

Simply doing its function, it expands the cage of my breastbones and allows me to _breathe_ properly, effortlessly. A task that had proven difficult with the passage of time and his absence, which I have felt deeply, like a constant puncturing to the heart with each passing day. Weighing, like an elephant sitting crushingly on my chest and threatening to give and puncture my heart with the shards of a broken rib any second, all this time.

But now, _He_ is here and suddenly, each new breath comes easier than the last. As if the weight of the chains in my chest have been dissolved to something inconsequential. Reduced to nothing by his existence within my vicinity, and the elephant gone. Something I do not doubt, because he has that kind of effect on me and is the only one that can provide the oxygen I need to function without suffering.

Rapt, I watch and observe how people seem to part to accommodate to his desire without further ado, while he lithely makes his way against the flow of the people around him. All the while, his autumn-colored gaze pins me in place and devours every inch of my body he can see from his vantage point.

Smack in the middle on the gallery now, he stills for a moment, acclimatizing to his surroundings and deliberating about which way to go so he can come to me. Coming to a decision, and once again he's moving and his eyes come back to me as he continues to admire me the way I'm admiring him. With hungry and desperate eyes, taking it all in and trying to make up for lost time.

Given the impatient nature of his gait, I can tell that he feels and thinks as I do. That even though we're in the same room, he's not nearly close enough and still won't be, until he's standing within reach. Even then, it won't feel close enough... Once again, I feel my pulse quickening and my whole frame feels like a war of nerves… He's nearly at the foot of the stairs… Getting closer still…

Systole, a glint of mischief shines in his eyes as the distance between us thins and he gazes at me with whirling promises storming in their autumn depths… Diastole, the crowd lingering at the foot of the stairs parts as he approaches, bending to his will unconsciously, and he pauses, prolonging the wait.

Even after five years he's still teasing and trying to get a rise out of me, since he knows how impatient I can be. Even so, he remains there for three heartbeats, simply staring at me with an unfathomable look in his eyes and unmoving. Finally, deciding we've both waited long enough and without breaking eye contact, he starts his ascent…

Within that moment, I find myself swallowing thickly because I have the sudden and inappropriate urge to laugh hysterically at the image he conjures up as more and more people keep on moving out of his way while he weaves is path to me. Because all I can picture is him as Moses and everyone else, watching how they move aside for him to pass without prompting, as the Red Sea.

_It really has been too long._ Otherwise, none of these things about him would surprise me.

* * *

…

* * *

My pulse is a deafening roar in my ears, thrumming and jittering… awaiting.

There are only four steps left before he's finally on the second floor and he quickly overtakes those without hesitation. Taking them two at a time with powerful strides that he manages to keep lithe, he reaches the top lading.

By the time he's nearly standing before me, I'm already propelling toward him without having formed the conscious thought to do so. Meanwhile, he's trying to regain his bearings and looking down at me tenderly, his chest falling and rising with each heaving breath he takes.

Gradually, he's standing within arm's reach and breathing me in with each inhale. Gazing at me with those autumn-like eyes of his, overflowing with a longing and a barely contained ache I often find in my mirror. Caught up in the moment, I'm gazing up at him, drinking the sight of him in, and feeling nigh overwhelmed.

"Oh, I can't take it, Isabella," he murmurs suddenly. The tone of his voice and the expression on his face is tortured, contrite. As a result, my sympathetic heart begins to beat a staccato tattoo against my aching chest as his words tear into me. "You're even perfect when you cry."

_God his voice… _

Closing my eyes, I take a moment to savor the sound of his voice and pick it apart in my mind as only the way he uttered my name registers. The recollection of his voice saying my name fills me and I feel my body lean in closer to him, seeking to be near his warmth. Satisfied and now able to process the rest, my mind reels his words back to me slowly again.

Processing his whispered words and actually hearing them, I become aware of my tears and gasp, expelling all the air from my lungs. Slowly, I hear his shaky intake of breath and feeling his nearness, my eyes flutter open once more. Only then do I realize that his fingers are ghosting over my tear-stricken cheeks tentatively, adoringly and tenderly casting aside my tears with careful thumbs.

Susurrus caresses of remembered touches absconding from his fingertips, meeting along my heating skin, and reacquainting with never forgotten paths. Revisiting old trails that follow some kind of diagrammatic representation on my skin that only he can follow and absorbing my warmth once more into his welcoming skin as his lips curl into a sad, heartbreaking smile. My answering smile is small, watery, and tentative.

All the pain he's trying to keep from me manifesting and showing through my tears as they stream down from my eyes. Every swipe of his thumb casting them aside is like a metaphor for the dispelling of his sorrow. Embolden by my silence and acceptance to his touch, his lips part as he speaks again and his tongue forms my name this time, full of encumbered decadence.

"Isabella."

_My name. _

Wanting to say something and respond, my lips part but then, the only thing my mouth can do when it parts open is deliver a single strangled and gargled noise that vibrates along the length of the back of my throat. My name on his lips is like dancing water, a lullaby to sooth the nerves. Unavoidably, a tremor of pleasure courses through me and I forget how to breathe... Of course, I need to hear it again.

"_Isabella…_" Softly, as if he intuitively knows the inner workings of my mind, he utters it again. The tenor of his voice delivers it with a reverence that I don't deserve, leaving me weak and breathless. Wanting to try again, my mouth opens and I mutely gasp for air as I realize this is really happening.

_He is really _here_… _

For a moment, I'd convinced myself that this was all a great delusion and somehow, I'd fallen asleep somewhere without realizing it. But now I know, I'm not dreaming… This is too real and his touch is too warm to be a dream. Even if the scene seems familiar to me. Familiar… Everything about him is so familiar and inviting, like in so many of my dreams. But usually, in a dream, he vanishes before I get to see him… But that isn't the case now.

Now I feel his scorching touch on my soft skin… Can see the shape of his eyes, their external form just so molded as to appear permanently somber and the irises with their autumn-like colors of surrounding warm brown strokes and encompassing yellow-reds. Even the symmetry of his straight nose and succulent mouth adorning his elegant, angular visage looks familiar.

Just by looking at his wheat-colored wisps, I can imagine and remember the feel and texture of those soft tousled curls, tangled between my fingers as if I were touching his hair. Feel the warm heat of his skin as he touches me, and the pulse of his heart vibrating under my fingertips as if it were my own. Taste his scent on my tongue and his breath, lingering on my skin with every breath I take and becoming a part of me as I become a part of him.

Palpitating heartbeats, always attuned to the rhythm of a song no one else could interpret, created by two people that were opposites and thus, the same. The same song I now hear as I listen to him breath and the images dancing behind my fluttering eyelids changes, giving way to newer ones.

Remembering, I feel the ghosts of his intimate touches exploring and memorizing the contours of my body with titillating fingertips that stray, playing to extract a sough with his name intertwined from my parted lips—a song so singularly his that no other knows the chords to. Closing my eyes, I hear his voice as it once tenderly murmured in my ear the things he wanted to do to me just before he'd make me shatter…

Unraveling new memories, ones I remember too well. Filled with raw longing, like the act that seared them into my mind and body… Unwinding every suppressed desire to once again feel the weight of his body over mine and to be completely intertwined, his fingers interlacing with my own. Mostly, I would give anything to savor a sample of the alchemy of his kisses, while his lips steal my breath in exchange for his during the ongoing quest to hold my very soul between his lips and willingly offering me his own.

Overwhelmed by the ghosts of these bombarding sensations his nearness has conjured, it seems as if I've never tried forgetting the taste of him over the years or as if only yesterday I'd uttered his name and I feel myself unraveling once more under his touch with no choice but to surrender to his affection. Surrender I do and intermit, the whispering ghosts is put to rest as I acknowledge the man before me.

Ceasing resistance, I look straight into the eyes of this man who is and always will be my tortured beacon and I try to familiarize myself with everything that isn't so familiar to me anymore. However, the beseeching gaze I'm met with captures me and I simply take in how his eyes have changed. As I do, I feel his touch falter as he starts to tremble and I see it in his eyes, that which tells me that I am _his _tortured beacon like he is _mine_.

Again, I understand why this man will continue to be familiar to me as my longing intensifies. Simply put, because he is unforgettable. Upon realizing this, I know what I need to say for now…

"I've missed you." I say, "Most ardently."

It is simple and it is fitting and it is inadequate in almost every way but one since it is the absolute truth. It is how we should have been and I realize I no longer care to run away from this man and what he does to me, what he's _been_ doing to me. Five years ago, I didn't know this but I now know that there's no running away from this man.

"I've been waiting but—I'm here now." His voice and words are a plea as he says, "Make this real, please… I've been so lost and tormented without you. I can't—Every time I've reached out to touch you…" Once again his fingertips are gliding over my skin, achingly soft and tentative, barely a whisper over my flesh as if he's afraid I might vanish if he tries to do otherwise. "You're always gone or telling me not to touch you. Even in my dreams I can't touch you…" He whispers, "What's changed?"

"_This _is real. I'm here now," I answer, holding his palm to my right cheek with my hand over his. He startles, staring at our hands in wonder. Shaking his head as if trying to rid his mind of fog, he turns those pleading eyes on me and I can see tears glistening in his eyes. "I'm here with you. I'm joining you."

"Isabella," he begins, "let me ask you to end my agony and tell me, who am I?"

"I know who you are," I whisper, my heart beating so fast it feels it might fly away and shatter. "I know you."

"_Tell me_," he demands pleadingly and closes his eyes.

For both of our sakes, I need to assure us that this isn't an idiosyncratic illusion. Reaching out, I rest my palm firm but tenderly against the apple of his prickling left cheek and he starts at the unexpected touch but his eyes remain guarded behind fluttering lids. With a fervor that's no longer dormant for him and probably never was, I part my lips to utter his name.

"Jasper…" I say. His name caresses my tongue like an old friend and falls from my lips plaintively. "Simply, _Jasper_."

…

* * *

.

…

.

* * *

_**…**_

_**A/N:**__ Don't know what you guys thought but I personally thought that was intense… This chapter truly tired me out. In a good way, if that makes sense. Anyway, this chapter also ended up being longer than I anticipated and I hope no one minds. _

_Once again, thank you for reading! Next chapter is going to be a flashback, _**Intermit One: **_**Autumn in July**__. Planning to upload for October 2, 2013. _

_If anyone wants a sneak peek at it before then, just leave a review and that will be the automatic reward. _

_Until next chapter,_

_Amaterasu Kinesi_


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